


A Friendly Discussion

by Ylevihs



Series: How Not to Fall [21]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, M/M, Retribution Spoilers, brief mia ochoa, ortega POV, platonic chargestep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 11:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19852015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ylevihs/pseuds/Ylevihs
Summary: Ortega brings his concerns about Richard's plans to the table





	A Friendly Discussion

He was in a good mood. A dangerously good mood. The morning had gotten off to a rocky start. Ortega had been able to smell the bullshit Richard was peddling the instant he started detailing his plans, but he hadn’t thought. No. That wasn’t true. Part of him had considered that Richard was lying to both him and Daniel, he just hadn’t wanted to listen to it. An emotion that he was not going to make eye contact with had quietly hoped that he would have been the one Richard could trust with the truth.

It was early evening and the air was still warm from the radiant heat of the streets. Overhead, streetlights were just starting to flicker on as the sun sank. Any moment now Richard would be arriving home to find an extremely pissed off boyfriend waiting for him. Ortega had asked that Daniel call him when he had finished reading Richard the riot act, or kicking his ass, or whatever it was Daniel ended up doing. Making him plant flowers in a community garden.

Ortega shifted his weight and darted in between the slow moving hulk of Los Diablos’ evening traffic, trailing annoyed and jealous honks behind him. His afternoon appointment, however, had gone even better than he’d dared to hope for and the satisfaction of it thrummed in his chest. It made for a nice beat, the bike’s engine roaring out a decent melody. Wearing his Charge suit had been overkill, but he was still glad he’d decided to go with it anyway. It had sent the right sort of message. 

A brief crackle in his helmet, the lower than standard issue tech doing its best with long range communications. He’d fried so many state of the art, delicate and sensitive, specially designed models that eventually R&D had settled for letting him use the sort of clunky comms you’d expect to find in a flea market. At least it kept costs down when they had to replace them every few months. A staticky, familiar voice pumped in through the speakers as Ortega rolled up to a red light.

“All units be advised, LDPD is reporting a hostage situation at the corner of Alvarado and West 11th street, inside a parking structure. No known casualties. Unknown number of hostages. Witnesses reported seeing Mad Dog in the area,”

Well, look at that. Everything was coming up roses tonight, wasn’t it? Not exactly how he wanted the chance to kick Richard’s ass, but when life gave you lemons. Ortega tried not to feel too excited about the fact that he’d be able to get to the idiot before Daniel. He tapped a careful finger against the hinge of his helmet. 

“Got it. I’m at 11th and Grand, I can be there right away,”

An almost immediate buzz as another response shot over, “Melrose and Fairfax, I’ll see you there,” Daniel’s voice sounded tinny in the helmet. Angry, if you knew to listen for it. Wei issued a mild warning for them both to be careful. He was back at HQ, because of course he was. It was difficult to imagine him being anywhere else, even at. Oh? Six in the evening. Angie was on the other side of town, but wanted to be kept posted. She was still miffed about the last time they’d fought. 

Ortega took a moment to raise himself up and peek through the intersection. Heavy traffic but maybe. Just enough of a break to. He cornered sharp and quick, gunning the accelerator and peeling out to join the rush of oncoming cars. Horns blared but were left far behind as he sped off, curving and weaving.

-

Four police cars were forming a make shift barricade at the entrance and exit of the parking garage by the time Ortega arrived. Several armed officers were positioning themselves at an angle to keep their weapons aimed up, maybe at the fourth or fifth level. There was a particularly large officer fiddling with a megaphone and making it squeal. The structure itself was on the older side, crackled cement half walls ran all the way to the top and the asphalt was split on the ground level. Ortega could see it even from a distance.

Shit. Was he planning on the taking the thing down? Mad Dog had made a reputation for himself for being a demolition man; tried to make a point about corruption by tearing down already crumbling infrastructure. But a parking garage? The report had mentioned hostages, though. Firmly outside of Mad Dog’s modus operendi. And Richard hadn’t passed anything along to Daniel. Or Daniel hadn’t passed anything along to Ortega at least. _Did_ they talk about Mad Dog’s schedule? Plan around it? Sorry, honey, dinner will be late, I’ve got to stop you from robbing a bank? Ortega shook his head to clear those thoughts away. Not the time.

As he rolled up, motor purring, a woman in LDPD blue ignored his Ranger’s suit and held out a hand to begin motioning with the other for him to keep moving. A movement which rapidly became one of her grabbing her radio and barking into it as Ortega slammed the gas and sped by, threading the needle between the trunks of two cop cars and zipping around the toll booth. A shot rang out somewhere behind him.

Damn. Trigger happy. Not a good sign. Any moment now Rangers HQ would be calling in to tell them he and Herald were coming in to handle the situation, but jumpy cops made for dangerous complications. He cornered hard on the incline up to the second level and forced himself to slow down. The steady putter of the engine bounced off the concrete and mixed jarringly with the police sirens down below, drowning out any other sounds that might be coming from the inside of the structure. No way to hear voices. There were still quite a few cars, probably from people working late.

An unknown number of hostages.

And only rumored sightings of Mad Dog.

Those two facts cleared their throats loudly in the back of his head. Ricardo decided that second bit didn’t matter; if it wasn’t Richard up ahead, then this was just another day at the office. All clear on the second level. And the third. He rounded the corner onto the fourth, slow and steady. This level was mostly deserted. Sirens and engines and that blow hard downstairs yelling into the megaphone crowded each other for space, but the distance muffled some of the sound at least. Level five it was then.

A few more parked cars than before and around the corner and down the aisle. And a screaming woman.

She was half leaning over the edge of the concrete half wall, shouting something down at the police. It took a half a second for the edges to line up but when it clicked, the picture he made matched the one on the box. Mia Ochoa? The reporter? Mr. Megaphone was yelling at her to get back from the edge—whatever Mia was shouting back was lost in the wail of sirens and the engine of his own bike. Loud enough, apparently, for Mia to recognize the change in sound. Her head whipped around and Ricardo caught just enough of her lips.

Forming ‘oh _shit_ ’.

About half a second before a car started screeching towards him. Sideways. Wheels shrieking their protests. Ricardo only barely managed to swing his bike wide and out of range. It brought him in between Mia and. In the direction it had come from, Mad Dog lowered his leg, the jets on his heel still throwing off exhaust from the kick. Only four parking spaces away. Every bit as imposing as he could look with Ricardo knowing that Richard was just inside. Something north of excitement trilled in his chest.

It twisted darkly with the knowledge that he is going to get himself killed _again_ if you don’t knock some sense into him. Under his skin, Ricardo’s mods thrummed, ever present and pulsing and ready to get to work.

“Didn’t think they’d actually send someone up so soon,” Mad Dog raised his arms in mock surrender, the crackle of the speakers in the helmet soft against the din. “And it’s the washed up Marshal himself, my, aren’t I lucky?” Putting on a show of ignorance for Mia’s sake. Us? Know each other? Clearly not expecting. If he’d been half a second earlier, Ortega would have been able to slam the bike straight into Mad Dog’s torso. But he was half a second late. Richard dodged and Ricardo had to pivot hard. Let the bike tip and take the weight on his leg. Had to ignore the whine from his knee. Had to push off against it. Even as metal hit concrete behind him, the momentum helped carry him forward and Mad Dog was already off balance. Mid rotation to look at the attack coming from behind.

Get him off his feet. Mad Dog’s armor made him too damn quick and he had to get him off his feet. Ortega dropped his shoulder mid-charge and planted it firmly against the armored ribcage. Crackles of electricity where his hands made contact around Mad Dog’s torso. It was enough to make him stumble, not enough to make him fall.

A starburst of pain lanced across his temple. The hit was hard enough to make the motorcycle helmet crack and dent, thankfully built to withstand that sort of impact. The electronics in it, however. Ricardo fell back, jerking off the helmet and throwing it away, sparking and smoking. It clattered uselessly on the ground.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that, old man,” even with the modulator, Ortega knew the smile in Richard’s voice when he heard it. It took far too much effort not to smile back. This wasn’t meant to be fun; this was supposed to be a lesson. Muscle memories of fights from almost a decade ago begged to differ. Sidestep had always said he was fine in the passenger’s seat and now every fiber of Ortega’s being missed that. Having Richard have his back. Going a little too hard during sparring; keeping him on his toes with a laugh and a reach advantage that just wasn’t fair. 

He was lucky Richard still favored that right hook. And telegraphed it so well. Ortega dodged into it, sending a pulse through his knuckles and slamming home against the joint of Mad Dog’s right arm. It tore a hard grunt from the voice modulator and. Harder to dodge the plated knee that tried to ram into his stomach. He managed. Barely. Something settled in the pit of his stomach as he watched the currents scatter over the armor uselessly. He needed a way in. And if one didn’t already exist.

He faked right, dropped low to the. Fuck. Into a solid punch to his sternum—the nanomesh of his suit did its best to distribute the impact and keep the bone from cracking. A wheeze of air was still forced out, leaving his chest tight and burning. Mad Dog’s fist curled into the material and pulled and oh, that wasn’t.

Mia shouted.

Short and sharp but sudden and Mad Dog’s attention snapped to her. Ortega took a moment to look. The police had thrown what looked like a tear gas canister. The hell did they think that was going to help with? Before either of them could move, and Ortega could feel Richard’s grip slipping because he _was_ going to move, Mia was stripped out of her jacket. She wrapped it around the smoking device and slung it like a shot put back over the wall. A chorus of shouting.

“That almost hit me you jackass!” Mr. Megaphone down below may have said something back, but Ortega’s attention had moved on.

Because for whatever reason Mad Dog’s hadn’t.

“Eyes on the prize, tough guy,”

Ortega landed a voltage loaded punch to his jaw hard enough to stagger him back. Bright white-blue arcs of electricity danced between Mad Dog’s armor and the surrounding cars. Back far enough to get a sweep of the leg. Richard tried to dodge and fucked up the timing, catching an ankle and going down hard. A grunt rumbled out of the helmet like a bark as it bounced on the concrete. Long legs scrabbled for purchase as Ortega bore down on him. Knees on either side of Richard’s chest. Catching the hands flying up at him, taking a hit. Two. Three to his ribs. Adrenaline dulled the sensation but something gave. Didn’t snap. Fuck, that was gonna hurt in the morning.

It hurt already. “You lying jackass,” he hissed, hopefully not loud enough for Mia to hear. “What were you thinking?”

Sudden tightness around his windpipe as Mad Dog’s gloved hand gripped at his throat. Another punch, this time to opposite side of the jaw and Mad Dog’s head snapped to the side. There. A crack in the armor. Literally. The plated body bucked under him.

His windpipe began sending out distress signals—too tight for too long and couldn’t breathe. Forcing back against the pressure Ortega got his hand against the crack and sent a burst of electricity into the helmet. That pissed something off. Another burst and a tight organic sound and _couldn’t breathe_.

Ortega’s world dipped sharply. Boosters flared to life behind him and then. Sharp pain, blossoming out from his spine and dragging nails over every nerve. Sending off every alarm inside. Oh, that was the actual car alarm. Mad Dog had flipped them both and slammed Ortega’s back into the side of a parked car.

Get up before he hits you get up before he hits you get up before feet on the ground and mods singing high pitched at the back of his skull and. Mad Dog’s cape had caught around the tire of the same car. Not keeping him still, but enough of a break for Ortega to kick hard against Richard’s right hip. Another guttural, animal sound. Mad Dog curled with the motion. For the moment he was stuck on the ground.

Richard never had had much endurance. He’d always preferred fast and hard and if that didn’t work, to run. Mad Dog had the same strategy, it seemed. Ortega got in a clean uppercut; some internal system inside the armor began whirring as the faceplate began to fracture.

“Did you think we wouldn’t notice?” Somewhere, distantly, Ortega realized that his knuckles were bleeding. His blood was smudged on Mad Dog’s armor, a dull streak of color. “That we would just let you get away with that?” The reserve stores buried deep in his musculature were beginning to kick to life, pumping a full burst of what felt like raw energy through his body. “Let you get yourself–,” The air around him crackled with it.

Oh, he was really gonna pay for this in the morning.

He got in another two solid punches to Mad Dog’s torso before the change hit. Slightly hunched from impact, Mad Dog was stock still, not even trying to block the incoming assault. Took a square punch to the temple with a sharp sound. That son of a.

“Fight me, pendejo,” Ortega wasn’t sure where that had come from but it was clawing its way up his bruised throat before he could stop it. “Fight back,” don’t lie back and take it. Don’t just accept it. Make an argument for why. Justify it. Fight for it. Give him a fucking reason beyond wanting to. To.

He wrapped a hand around the spider webbed face plate and Mad Dog didn’t stop him. Made no move against the sharp bolts of lightning lancing into the internal wirings, save for gripping up at Ortega’s forearm. Not even trying to pull him off. Ortega discharged another burst into the fragile system until it was easier than popping open a beer to flip up the helmet’s visor.

Which he almost did. Would have done. But as the mechanism began to catch, a voice rang out over the chaos of police sirens and car alarms and Mia. He kept his fingers firm.

“Charge!” Ortega kept his eyes pinned on Mad Dog. The change was immediate and visceral. The hand on his forearm dropped, limp and boneless. So severe that for a moment he felt a peal of fear that, shit, had he electrocuted—no. No, he hadn’t. But Daniel’s arrival had been seen or heard or felt and there was nothing but the shell of Mad Dog under his hands now. It was all Richard inside.

“Jesus, really?” No response. It stung somewhere that he would never admit to. And then in a louder voice. “I’ve got it under control Herald, get Ochoa out of here,” he didn’t need to look to feel Daniel hesitating. Looking over his shoulder. “And tell those idiots on the ground to stop throwing things up here,” and ah, shit, he was clenching his teeth. A long pause, the wail of sirens now a backdrop that barely registered in his head.

“I’ll be right back,” and Ortega couldn’t place the tone of Daniel’s voice if he tried. So he didn’t. Tight anger, three sizes too small, squeezed his lungs and his heart and his brain. He waited until his peripheral vision picked up on Herald gently scooping a still very loud and animated Mia Ochoa and slipping out from the parking structure.

And then forced the face plate up with a crackle of electricity. Tried to. The systems were blitzed enough for him to shake up open, but not lift it away. Catching on itself. The hand that had fallen softly away from his arm moved slowly. Ortega watched it, still boiling. This fight was not entirely over. Didn’t feel like it at least, but Richard was messing with a hidden clasp. Taking off the helmet entirely. He had a gash on his forehead where the face plate had split. Blood on his lips and teeth from a bitten cheek. Red raised places that would darken to bruises later.

“What is wrong with you?” it wasn’t what he wanted to ask, but those words refused to leave his chest.

A pause that felt longer than it probably was. “In alphabetical order or?” Ortega punched him. It wasn’t supposed to be as hard as before but something still crunched under the weight of it. Richard let it knock him back onto his ass, hand coming up to shield his naked face. The rage fueled adrenaline was taking its sweet time leaving his system; it wasn’t tempered in the least by Richard spitting out a thick glob of saliva and blood and part of a tooth. He breathed out ragged for a moment before that gaze swung up to meet Ortega’s. “I take it you and Daniel have been talking,”

“What is wrong with you?” Ortega repeated, moving forward because standing still where he was would have driven him mad. Instead he found himself back on the ground, hands wrapping into the seams where the stupid cape attached. Thin sparks, shocks only in name, zipped from his palms into the fabric. “Why do you keep lying to us? Do you think we’re stupid?”

“No,”

“Then you don’t trust us?” he shook the body in his hands for emphasis, not anticipating the way Richard simply let it happen, let himself rag doll with the movement.

“No!” harsher, catching in his throat.

“Then why?” Ortega heard the desperation in his own voice and hated it. Hated this. “I swear if you say it was to protect us–,”

Richard spat blood again. Thinner. “And if it was?”

“Then get fucked, Richie. Neither of us are going to sit back and let you do this alone. We’re not letting you waltz in and get yourself killed,” silence. “That’s the plan isn’t it? The actual one? While Danny and I are off doing God knows what, you attack on your own and get yourself killed doing it? Some bigger and better suicide-by-cop? I can’t,” he knew he was on the verge of shouting but there were still alarms and sirens and. “I can’t,” it was slipping away. Water between his fingers. Losing it with Richard bleeding on the ground and not putting up a fight and still not giving an inch.

“You can’t _what_?”

“I can’t bury you again!” practically screaming in his stupid face. He wanted to cry but shoved it back. Shaking Richard instead. Driving back the urge to hit him again because how could one man be so deliberately stupid? “Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Richard I can’t,” he wanted to collapse down. The high from the fight was starting to waver. Everything ached, starting from the marrow in his bones and working outwards from there.

“Ricardo,”

“Shut up,” his mods were beginning to cool down, latent zips dancing down his veins. “You don’t get to say sorry anymore. Your choices were to stop lying or stop talking and you chose to talk,” Ortega glared down at him and saw the change in Richard’s face. “We’re in this with you now, to the end. Do you get that? The absolute end. I’m not gonna let,” his voice cracked. Tried to blame it on the choking from earlier, but. “I won’t let you die again,” it may have been ugliest thought he’d ever had, but it was a familiar one. If he hadn’t let Richard come with them. If he’d kept a better eye on the group. If he hadn’t taken so long with Chen. If he’d been quicker up the stairs. To grab the gun. To get in between Richard and the window. Ifs, ifs and more ifs. A new one had recently been added. If he’d been quicker to get outside after the fall. If he’d listened more to more theories. 

Richard’s voice was too small and all it did was make Ortega want to hit him again. “You never did in the first place,”

**Author's Note:**

> *sighs for the next eighteen years because of fucking fight scenes*


End file.
